


don’t let us go to waste

by pensee, vivisextion (pensee)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Also unexpected garroting, Bad non explicit things happening to bodies, Breathplay, Cannibalism Implications, Dom Will, Everyone’s very matter of fact about everything, M/M, Possessive Hannibal, Post-Series, Probably should’ve started with that, Show level violence, Will Graham cocktease extraordinaire, Will Graham has Become, Will acknowledging his own power, everyone’s fine, horny old men, i love them
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2019-10-11
Packaged: 2020-12-07 20:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20981948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/pensee, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pensee/pseuds/vivisextion
Summary: “I thought that was meant to be a gift, not an offering for a last supper,” he says, throat gravelly and sound torn.Will wants to relive this scenario, with Hannibal’s wrecked voice, in his head for the rest of time.This is Uffizi Galleries and moving trains and falling off cliffs, but better, because they know exactly what’s about to happen next.-Will and Hannibal live together and hunt together, but they’ve never done anything sexual because Hannibal has no idea how to propose such a thing without making it look like he’s added eroticized murder to the laundry list of sadistic characteristics Will has often accused him of embodying. Or: Will gives Hannibal a lesson in how to get what he wants.





	don’t let us go to waste

**Author's Note:**

> So this is both ancient and barely half an idea and cliched af. I’m not staring at this in my drafts any longer. Probably my only real attempt at Dom Will to date. Shrug shrug. Enjoy.

The string of islands they’re currently inhabiting is a small, terribly luxurious Mediterranean chain, intimate enough like the Keys, but with enough transient, wealthy residents that they don’t raise any eyebrows with how terribly and domestically in love they appear, two middle-aged men without a care in the world.

At least, until Will decides to stir up a bit of trouble.

Not quite as loud or drug-laden as Ibiza, they’re nonetheless enjoying the club scene because it’s a free chance to scout for victims whom no one will question the whereabouts of the day, week, or even month after the fact. It also conveniently happens to be a place where Will can snatch admiring glances from aging heiresses or filthy rich seventy-year old men still able to get hard-ons for him, tired of airheaded twentysomethings and nonetheless comfortable with a smaller age gap as long as the difference is in the decades.

He’s completely anonymous, with license to be either shockingly awkward, bordering on nonverbal till someone who doesn’t have his interest leaves him alone, or incredibly free with himself, doling out casual, meaningless touches and biting wit that leaves them wanting more.

Wanting more is a feeling Will’s intimately familiar with, and it doesn’t seem he’s going to be fulfilled anytime soon, Hannibal brooding soundless and unnerving nearby, a solitary figure at the bar with a lack of emotion that would force even the best polygraph examiners to throw in the towel.

He hates that Will lets himself be seen (without being Seen) by so many people, while in his mind, both versions of Will belong to him and him alone.

These things shouldn’t matter, but Hannibal’s incomparable ability to multitask means he’s got a lot of free time on his hands where most people would have none. Makes the irritating sight of his _possession _parading itself around to purposely draw attention from the wrong sort of people that would taste good on a dinner plate.

This isn’t the snatch-and-grab methodology of their dear departed Garrett Jacob Hobbs, but it is nauseatingly close, Will knows, and lacks the sophistication of true detachment Hannibal is usually after. Will shouldn’t be chatting up their next fillet mignon, yet here he is, on a white leather couch with a man who is about Hannibal’s age but more traditionally handsome, he supposes, taller and more muscular in places where Hannibal’s started to go a bit soft, with wavy blond hair and light eyes Will thinks might compliment their centerpiece at home.

Hannibal actually frowns, not bothering to mask his disappointment, and Will feels something tug on him, vaguely like guilt but more like the prolonged agony of a failed investment, remembering a time when Jack had, horrified, informed him of Matthew Brown’s body being stolen from the FBI morgue, later to be found dumped in a refuse processing plant by a diligent crane operator, all while Hannibal had supposedly been resting and recuperating at Maryland Misericordia. Hannibal hadn’t just desecrated Matthew’s poor corpse because he’d tried to kill him, no; he’d done it because someone had the audacity to _touch _Will—

(put him in handcuffs, caress his wrists, bare his soul, just for a five-minute chat about scavenging birds and how deadly they could be if they were (working) together).

But now, there was this only this subtle frown, which equates to barely a flicker of interest from Hannibal, just a long-ignored parent chastising a child too far beyond the pale to be redirected.

It made Will _furious_, but he knew better than to fly off the handle and scream and stomp his feet like the child Hannibal would no doubt accuse him of being if he acted in such a way. The redeeming part of this whole mess was that he had also finally figured out exactly how to deal with their lack of communication. 

“Will you come with me back to my place?” he tries, tripping over the German a bit to seem charming, not because he’s actually halfway drunk right now, not at all.

“You didn’t have to ask, I would have followed,” the man grins, mouth against Will’s neck, and Will looks across the room, wishes it was another voice telling him that instead.

Red eyes track him heatedly as he stands to leave.

Hannibal’s already butchered the poor German fellow alive within the hour, but he’s emotional and impulsive, which is why it’s easy enough for Will, even with his comparatively lesser strength, to wrap the improvised garotte around Hannibal’s blood-spattered neck and yank till they both fall to their knees.

The lamp cord is surprisingly (and usefully) long, and Will knows he’ll get out of Hannibal bitching about the destruction if this all goes to plan.

Hannibal bites him—no big surprise there—a sizeable chunk torn out of his arm, and Will’s sure it’ll hurt later, but for now, he just holds on till Hannibal starts to slump (God, never would fate not allow him to be cast as another stupidly overconfident Jack Crawford), only to bodily slam Will onto the floor while their muscles are lax, knocking the wind out of him and bringing the throbbing pain in his arm to the forefront of his mind till he lets go of the cord and starts coughing as counterpoint to Hannibal’s tortured wheeze from across the carpet.

“I thought that was meant to be a gift, not an offering for a last supper,” he says, throat gravelly and sound torn.

Will wants to relive this scenario, with Hannibal’s wrecked voice, in his head for the rest of time.

This is Uffizi Galleries and moving trains and falling off cliffs, but better, because they know exactly what’s about to happen next.

“Got to keep you on your toes,” Will smiles, and snatches the cord quick enough that Hannibal can only prepare to be strangled again, but instead, Will yanks his arm with all the strength he has in his body, puts it in a lock and forces him onto the edge of the bed.

Their headboard is wrought iron and probably from some Spanish Inquisition’s dungeon lair.

Will thinks it will be perfect for tying up his serial killing not-husband for a serious fucking talking-to.

“Aught at I own enjoy dis—,” Hannibal starts, facedown on the duvet with Will sitting on his lower back.

Will lets him up only to retie the coils of cord he already has around Hannibal’s wrists to the headboard.

“Not that I don’t enjoy this sudden burst of violent inspiration, darling,” he says, throat raw and eyes bloodshot—God, he would look even more handsome with petechial hemorrhaging, Will thinks nonsensically—“But I really don’t see what all the fuss is about. You wanted me to kill him, and now he’s dead.”

“This isn’t about the cold cuts in the basement,” Will snaps, seated on Hannibal’s ribs this time, stealing breath he feels he has a right to, now. “This is about me not getting off before you chopped him to pieces.”

Hannibal blinks, lungs sucking in breaths Will won’t let him have entirely now, probably not much in the near future, either.

“Forgive me, dearest, but you’re one to ‘get off’ rather frequently, especially for one of your age—.” Will presses down on an old scar from the cliff that still hurts him, and Hannibal frowns minutely. “I hardly think you could begrudge me one honest mistake.”

“You don’t make mistakes, Hannibal. And you taught _me _well, which is why you’re tied up and half strangled to death instead of me being struck happily dumb with your cock shoved halfway up to my stomach.”

This is the first time in the ten years they’ve known each other that Will actually gets a rise out of his former psychiatrist.

“Pardon,” he says, flat and disbelieving, and Will finally just grabs him by the jaw and says, “It’s completely okay if ridding the world of rude people gets you off. Doesn’t matter whether it’s sexual or not. There’s an added layer of companionship now, which changes things entirely for you, but I’m saying that you don’t have to be afraid I’ll run away screaming. At this point, I’m just along for the ride.

“I Became, Hannibal, and that doesn’t stop because you suddenly realize you can get a boner about me covered in blood.”

Hannibal’s mouth snaps shut, nearly taking the first joint of Will’s index and middle fingers with it, and both of them sigh at once, frustrated on entirely different levels (Will wonders, dangerously, if their intentions haven’t blended together, if his disappointment at the near-amputation is fear or regret at Hannibal’s missed opportunity).

Will knows he’s basically straddling a rabid wolf at the moment, but that only makes what happens next even more heady: Hannibal, tearing so hard at the electrical cord that he snaps the wrought iron it’s wrapped around, untangling himself with a hand at Will’s throat seemingly before either of them can blink.

The broken headboard hits the wall with a dull, loud thump.

“_No_,” Will whispers, trying and trusting this won’t all go awry. (Worked so well before, right?) “Stay there, Hannibal. Don’t make me tie you up again.”

He’s sitting in a pool of blood and fabric, Hannibal’s shirt ruined beyond saving, so Will doesn’t care that he rips it in half with the knife from their bedside table, not any more careful with the gore-dampened slacks either.

Hannibal didn’t use any forensic deterrents, apron or suit, and the guy must’ve fought a bit more than he’d thought possible with—hmm, arterial spray, fountain from the femoral artery—a very long thirty seconds left to live.

He rests his head on Hannibal’s shallowly rising and falling chest, feeling a bit foolish, like a child begging for attention when he doesn’t have to.

“You know, I remembered what you did to me. I’ve told you this, but—That tube you shoved down my throat. It always horrified me, but I couldn’t help but imagine what you were thinking when you were doing it. If you wanted to use something thicker.”

He leans down.

“Right into my belly, hmm, that’s where you wanted to be?”

Hannibal twitches beneath him, and Will crawls down to nuzzle against the hardness he’s imagined for _years_, swaying to further arousal at barely a touch.

“_Inside_,” Hannibal growls, ever the chained beast, and Will almost laughs, would have if goosebumps weren’t breaking out all over his body. “Let me inside of you, Will. I won’t ask again.”

The phrasing is deliberate. Ultimatums offered between them, two sides of the same coin.

Will does chuckle at the image of Hannibal shoving body parts down his throat using his cock as a battering ram, but that stops quickly because Hannibal disobeys, dragging Will’s face forward and the only reason they’re not actively reliving the past right now because it would take too much away from this to go downstairs and chop off that German millionaire’s left ear.

Getting lost in the feel of Hannibal’s warm glans and foreskin in his mouth is something mindless and wonderful, but it isn’t what Will wants entirely, so he manages to pry himself away, hefty weight of said dripping cock in his hand when he starts humping it lazily, moving his hips as he lets the tip catch on his hole before redirecting it to glide through his cheeks.

“Will—,” Hannibal chokes out, lasting like this for half an hour as Will grinds on him, fingers clutching at the sheets and nowhere else without permission, leisurely as an early morning half-awake fuck with none of the desire to chase completion.

This lack of mercy, this is Will’s reckoning for him, and more.

Hannibal feels him come against his stomach, dribbling slightly against his solid yet soft abdomen, enjoying the satisfaction in the psychological victory even more than in the physical one.

“Did I say you could do that?” Will asks gleefully, when Hannibal continues to shove his cock up onto him. “I’m not gonna let you come, baby, not tonight, not tomorrow morning…”

Hannibal can truly hold off, probably until he can pseudo-diagnose himself with blue balls, but he’s ever curious about how Will might react to disobedience in such a power struggle as theirs, ongoing and mercurial and never with a clear end in sight.

Will’s leaning down, still fully clothed, to rub himself against his own come, lapping it up like honey, when Hannibal lets the image of such a tableau solidify itself in his mind and before his eyes, Will with mouth slightly agape as Hannibal’s come splashes against his throat and collarbone and slides back down onto its source to matt in his own pubic hair and drip along his sac.

The spark of what he sees in Will’s eyes, the release of adrenaline in his own veins is something purer than fear or lust or pride at Will’s expression as he looks up, slowly, saying, “That was incredibly rude, Doctor Lecter.

“_What’s to be done about that_?”

**Author's Note:**

> @penseeart on Twitter.


End file.
